


Earl Grey

by MaggieTulliver



Series: Tea Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:48:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaggieTulliver/pseuds/MaggieTulliver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adding to the stereotype that all Sherlock fics are obsessed with tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Earl Grey

John stared at the chipped cup. Placed atop the scattered papers spread over the side table, the cup was still half filled with tea. The saucer was nowhere to be seen. How long had that been sitting here? He always made an effort to put his own cups into the sink to soak at the very least.  Though, to tell the truth, his own cups sat neglected amongst the various papers, books, and other paraphernalia often enough too. But he had made a habit of walking about the flat every once in a while to collect the lost cups and mugs for the sink after he had found one particularly disgusting mug.  He had absentmindedly reached over to take a sip when he found that fuzzy green mold had taken over its surface like an invading armada. That had not been pleasant.

He tipped the cup forward to take a look. There was no sign of a fungal invasion so perhaps it hadn't been sitting here long.  But the stained brown circle inside the white porcelain seemed to suggest the opposite.  

Then John remembered Sherlock sipping from the same chipped cup before getting distracted by Lestrade bringing him a new batch of crime scene photos and abandoning it where it sat now. Considering that this had been days ago he wouldn’t have been surprised to find any mold floating in the cold tea. However, it sat perfectly preserved in appearance. No different really from its state at the moment of its abandonment except that it had lost its heat to its surroundings until it had finally reached its current room-temperature state. Rules of entropy and all that.

He should clear it up before it really began to grow mold. He picked it up and moved towards the kitchen to finally stand before the sink ready to dump its contents down into the drain. But instead of tipping the cup over the sink, John found himself bringing the cup up to his own lips. The bright citrus of the bergamot rose to meet his nose from the dark mirrored surface. He drained the teacup in one large and long gulp. It was cold and bitter just as he had expected.

Was there anything more horrid than cold earl grey?

After finally placing the stained cup into the sink, John stood clutching at the edge of the sink. He imagined he could feel the cold dark liquid rushing down his esophagus and into the rest of his digestive system where it would soon be absorbed into his bloodstream—each drop and molecule of tea running through his veins becoming the nutrients that enriched and built up new cells of John. It was now a part of him. He could almost hear the steady swish swashing of the tea being pumped throughout his body with each heartbeat.

The other half of the cup lay in the morgue in a cold dead body he had last seen laid out on a slab at St. Bart’s. Inside Sherlock. But this half would be a part of him—of John.

This was fanciful thinking, he knew. Tea was mostly water. It would pass thru his system leaving little in its wake. Besides, Sherlock may have seemed beyond extraordinary at times but he was human. Too human in the end. And it wasn’t as if Sherlock had been beyond the human needs of urination. He would have pissed out whatever tea he had partaken of long before he had…he had…

No.

John shook his head. He could and would believe whatever he wanted to believe. The tea rushed through his veins no longer cold but at a warm and healthy 36 degrees Celsius. One day it would again cool but today—today was not that day.

John squared his shoulders and turned back to the sitting room where the half filled cardboard boxes stood at parade rest amidst the painfully shrunken remains of the familiar mess that had been their living room. There was work to do. And John Watson would get it done.


End file.
